


Proper Fighters

by Pent



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, Hands, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Manicures & Pedicures, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:43:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pent/pseuds/Pent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keeler does Encke's nails, and Encke realizes how little he knows about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proper Fighters

Time hardly crept across the gap between nighttime and early morning when Encke woke up to the sound of Keeler coughing his lungs out. When Encke drowsily suggested that he take the day off, Keeler snapped in refusal. The navigator's stubbornness and harmful dedication to his work wasn't anything new, but Encke put extra effort into staying awake after Keeler had fallen asleep again, not keen on finding him cold and dead in his bunk the next morning. Aside from staying quiet and still like a dead animal rather than tossing around like he usually did, nothing unusual or concerning happened.

When Encke shot awake before he usually did, he was irritated to find that Keeler was long gone; coffee machine half-full of cold sludge, the room nice and tidy as if he had never been there. Regrettably, Encke thought, he must have dozed off at some point, and the sneaky bastard must have jumped at the opportunity to slip away without having to bicker with him over his health. Aggressively getting ready, Encke inferred that Keeler was ignoring his body's screaming signals to slow the fuck down—like he always did, and that he was sick and working himself into the ground—as usual. 

Before physical training, Encke couldn't help but pop into medical to see if Keeler had ended up there already. He was relieved to find no sign of Keeler, aware that he would not go near the medical bay unless he was dragged there unconscious or bleeding out. The absence did not rid him of the stress rising to his face because of Keeler still being up and about when he should have been resting.

It was barely past 0800 when Encke looked at the slow-moving clock for what seemed like the millionth time while his fighters did extra laps for pissing him off. Anxious, Encke justified what he was about to do with the logic that properly honed fighters would be completely useless in Colteron space if the Sleipnir's lead navigator was... 

"Alright ladies, take twenty," Encke shouted, tearing his eyes from the clock and fixing his posture. Some of the fighters slowed down, and all weary eyes gravitated to him. No one stopped. "You fucking deaf? Take twenty!" he hollered, causing the fighters to snap into frenzied motion with a collective huff of relief. "Don't even think about being late when we resume, or you all gonna regret it." 

Feeling powerful, Encke stormed straight for the navigator lab with his head held high despite the questioning glances and murmurs emitted from the bolder navies, clustered in packs. He hated having to cross deep into their territory and gritted his teeth. Luckily, Keeler wasn't hard to spot; face sharp with concentration, leaning over to watch one of his navigators' screens with a white-knuckled death grip to keep his balance as he blankly talked, the navi occasionally nodding. The paleness of his face was not just from the light of the screen, Encke knew.

Keeler was so absorbed in his work that he visibly grounded himself to keep from jumping out of his skin when Encke clutched his arm to get his attention. It seemed like every other navigator had noticed Encke's arrival, and most of them were pretending to clack away at their work. All eyes were fixated on the two lieutenants, and every one of them was ready to record every word of their exchange in their sharp minds. Keeler's exhausted eyes flicked up to meet Encke's concerned frown and he froze momentarily with surprise before he straightened to face Encke and asked quietly, "Has something come up?"

"Yeah," Encke lied, watching Keeler closely as he gave his final words to the curly-haired navigator, who blankly nodded even though he wasn't hearing a word Keeler was saying to him due to his deeper concern with the lieutenants' affairs. Encke didn't have to ask Keeler to follow him, and the two left the lab, more than a few pairs of navigator eyes still watching them as they made their leave.

When the door hissed shut behind them, Keeler asked, "What does Bering need from me?" His brow wrinkled in puzzled thought. Harassed, he continued, "Or has he ordered you to force me to report to Cook? I already told him that the scanners—"

Hushing Keeler gently with his hand, Encke came to a halt, lightly gripping Keeler on the shoulders to look him square in the eye; ignoring his flinch. "Don't think about work right now." After a short pause, he narrowed his eyes and added, "Don't think about anything."

"But—"

"You're sick, Keeler. We're going to your office." Keeler looked more pale than angry to Encke, but neither of them had enough energy to argue over it. They marched straight to Keeler's office, Encke pausing before fumbling with the lock code. 

His office was a wreck, but smelled so particularly regulation-sterile that it made Encke feel uncomfortable to be there. He'd never gotten used to it. Like a ghost, Keeler trailed straight for his messy desk and Encke found himself debating over whether or not to make Keeler coffee or to just give him water. A quick glance reminded him how dehydrated Keeler looked, so Encke gingerly removed his gloves and began digging through his shoebox-sized cabinet for tea, a compromise. Keeler was hacking away again when he was almost finished preparing it. 

When Encke carefully placed the tea on Keeler's desk, Keeler let out a sharp gasp that almost caused him to shatter the mug with his tense fist. Rigid, Encke sprang forward and demanded, "Fuck, is it—"

"Your hands," Keeler murmured, lightly brushing away Encke's quivering arms that had slammed down on his desk, spraying a small amount of tea over the screens of documents adorning it. Encke couldn't disengage himself from the alarm that jolted through him, even though Keeler seemed to be fine.

Still unconvinced that Keeler was entirely okay, Encke looked down at his hands, turning them over to inspect them thoroughly. "What about them?" he asked slowly, as if shattering the silence too abruptly would break Keeler along with it. Nervous stare focused on the dazed navigator, he stole another glance at his hands to see if he could discover why Keeler was gaping at him in surprise. Encke's skin was not bubbling raw with a flesh-eating virus, and as far as he could tell, his hands looked normal.

Keeler snapped out of his funk and slid the mug to his side of the desk before taking a deep breath. After taking a sip of tea, eyes still focused on Encke's hands over the rim of the mug, he grimly clarified—as if it were obvious, "Your nails, Encke."

Like he had been burned, Encke flipped his hands again to see what was wrong with them, paying particular attention to his nails this time. Annoyed, he glared at Keeler and snapped, "The hell are you talking about?" 

And softer, when a flicker of Keeler's affliction bled through his impenetrable blank expression, making Encke feel like an ass, "You alright?" Keeler nodded, glossy eyes peering at his hands over the rim of the mug while he took a sip of his tea and tried not to cough too hard into the hot liquid. Controlled, Encke asked again, "What's wrong with my nails?"

"They look awful. How can you keep them like that?" 

Encke was confused when he thought to respond, but Keeler wasn't looking for an answer. He rose from the desk and started to paw through a vacant drawer in the corner of his office. "Doesn't it bother you—to have your hands torn up like that? Please don't give me any alpha fighter bullshit about this, Encke. What it really comes down to is a matter of performance."

Taken aback by the sharpness in Keeler's quiet voice, Encke stood still as Keeler continued to dig through the drawer with an unsatisfied frown drawn across his face. Keeler lectured Encke on how his hands needed to be in perfect condition in order for his reflexes to be properly triggered in crisis situations; the pain that he had gotten used to from all the bruises and slices was wearing out his nerves... Encke was only half-listening to Keeler as he continued, satisfied that he was no longer coughing and beyond the point of asking him if he was serious. Almost guilty, his eyes fell on his hands again, the way Keeler must have seen them: nails cracked, uneven, and painted with dried blood in the crevices. Calluses decorated nearly the entire underside of both hands, thickening around his thumbs especially. Normal. 

A pansy-ass, sparkly blue plastic bag plopped onto Keeler's desk, and Encke was so stunned by it that he was no longer aware if Keeler was still talking or not. Ripping his stare from the intoxicating blue bag, his eyes magnetically snapped to Keeler's hands. He hadn't paid enough attention to them before, but Keeler's hands were flawless. Perfectly even oval-shaped nails, pretty long fingers with not so much as a scrape or mark, and evenly-sized joints that had never been broken.

"Okay?" Keeler asked—probably not the first time—leaning over his desk to capture Encke's attention before he sat down. He commanded Encke to do the same, who pulled up a chair without arguing. The blue bag seemed to mock him in a glimmer of light when Keeler gently pulled one of his hands out towards the center of the desk, palm down and flat, before he began digging through the bag's mysterious contents. 

"There's a reason fighters where gloves, baby," Encke noted dryly, as if he had been listening to his rant the entire time. Keeler intently dug through the shimmering bag, occasionally pulling out utensils that looked more like mad scientist, human experimentation tools for cutting up flesh rather than things that were supposed to fix your hands. Encke wanted nothing more than to squirm away, but he didn't move a stiff muscle, darkly wondering if he looked as ridiculous as he felt and how things had come to this. "We don't have any reason to keep our hands nice and pretty; they'll be fucked up by the time— _is that a coke spoon?_ "

Caught surprised, Keeler laughed, really laughed in a way that made Encke have to look him in the eyes to see if he was the same Keeler who was his navigator. "Cuticle pusher."

After Keeler seemed to have finished extracting all of the various filleting tools he needed to un-fuck Encke's hands, he brushed a loose strand of hair out of his face before digging into the disaster zone, starting with his mostly-torn-off cuticles. Encke clenched his jaw tight, though surprised at how gentle and efficient Keeler worked. The freezing touch of Keeler's fingers and the biting tools were both uncomfortable, but Encke eased the tenseness in his muscles and didn't dare ask Keeler to quit. Not because he couldn't put up with another typical Earthling navigator beauty-efficiency rant, but because Keeler looked so damn gorgeous when he was deep in concentration. The occasional ticklish brush of his flawless fingers against his skin made Encke shiver, and the way he worked so diligently was fascinating, as if his hands were finely engineered to do this task alone. 

It almost made Encke forget about Keeler's faltering well-being, until he leaned away from the work-zone and coughed again. Mixed with his fascination at how beautiful he was, Encke noticed something dark in Keeler's face. His cheekbones were sunken and tired, and dark circles came prominent under his eyes when he wasn't masking them with the distracting brightness of his smile.

"You should take better care of your hands, Encke," Keeler said all of the sudden, having to clear his throat.

"I'm a fighter. They get banged up," Encke replied, shrugging. "Doesn't seem worth it."

Keeler stayed silent, but drew his lips while his boney fingers grazed over the tools to pick up what appeared to be a giant, colorful polka-dotted tongue depressor. Encke tensed when Keeler firmly held his fingers in place before he began to hack at the tips of his nails with the sandpaper device. "Jesus," Encke hissed, not expecting it to feel so strange.

The corners of Keeler's lips tugged into a smile as he continued to work, tightening his grip on Encke's fingers to better hold them in place. "Relax," he said. Encke did, but had a hard time holding still when Keeler got to each pinky. 

"You're not gonna paint them, are you?" Suspicion clouded Encke's voice.

"Hm? You want me to?" he teased. 

"Hell no."

A wisp of a smug suit-yourself sort of smile floated across Keeler's face before he continued. They stayed silent, until Encke felt Keeler stop, fingers lightly tracing the roughness of his knuckles. Encke lifted his head to look at Keeler, whose eyes were focused unreadably on his hands. "What happened here?"

There was concern in Keeler's voice that Encke ignored, as well the perfection of his white hands. Encke looked down at his knuckles, torn up and mangled like the rest of his hands. He half-shrugged. "Nothing. S'just from training over the years. Fracture heals."

"Oh," Keeler said, hesitating longer than he should have before continuing to nip at Encke's nails with his tools. It was hard for Encke to tear his eyes off of Keeler's focused face again, still convinced that he was more ill than he would ever show and fascinated by the way he was able to conceal any indications of such. It hurt to think about how much practice Keeler had in that division, so he watched his hands at work again. It was then that Encke noticed something about Keeler's hand that looked out of place on a navigator.

"The hell happened to your hand?"

"Hm?" Keeler sounded, ceasing to work on Encke's hands to inspect his own. His eyes softened when he realized what Encke was referring to. "Oh. This scar?"

It was almost undetectable, so thin and faded—but a scar was definitely there, neatly healed and profoundly out of place. The scar ran from the top of his tiny wrist in a jagged almost-crescent pattern that ended indefinitely soft near the base of his palm. Encke was jarred that he had never noticed it before, and could not think of a scenario in which a navigator could acquire such a scar. Keeler didn't seem to fit the type to do something brash and mindless enough to brand an accident across his skin for the galaxy to see. And from what Encke gathered since he had joined the Alliance, Earth skin didn't just scar like his did.

Encke couldn't tell if Keeler was uncomfortable or not as he blankly stared at the scar as well, memories undoubtedly flooding his mind with an unreadable expression masking all that went on in his head. After a short while, Keeler muttered, "Huh. I don't remember."

They both knew he was lying, but Keeler attempted to drop the subject by digging into Encke's hands a bit rougher than he had before. 

Scars were never just scars. Encke looked at the nasty traces of scars that lined his own hands. He could pin-point exactly when, where, and how he had received every mark embellished into his skin—even the ones that had faded, and the ones that were nearly too small to see. There was a mark where Gavin Emmich had stabbed him with a pencil in school years and years ago on the colonies. Encke recalled how he had punched him in the face after class, earning him a suspension and a shameful scolding when he returned home. There was small burn-mark on the side of his index finger that had taught him to stay away from fire; and even a scrape mark that never healed properly, when he had been too stubborn to have someone help him wash the debris out of the wound he got when he had tripped over his shred-ended shoelaces. 

Keeler's hands were different: manufactured, unnatural, and flawless. No history or personality displayed on them, whether it be from caution, genetics, or both. Probably a near-exact replica of every other navi on the Sleipnir, too. From his hands, Encke could not even begin to guess if Keeler had lived a sheltered life, or if he'd been to hell and back. It was impossible to tell with Keeler regardless, but his lack of something so human made him somewhat untrustable.

It then occurred to Encke, that Keeler could piece together deeply personal sections of his past, simply by looking at his hands. He felt uncomfortably exposed at the one-sided advantage, wondering what Keeler assumed about him and supposed memories he hadn't shared. 

The scar on Keeler's hand made things complicated, a tease at his tightly sealed history that had forced its way through the cracks and aggravated Encke with a curiosity never to be satisfied.


End file.
